γπππππππ ππ: πππππ πππ π ππππππππγ
β¦Racked Expanse β between shredded spiral arms, where light falls like cut glassβ§
The battlefield had the smell of endings. Orbital debris spun lazy prayers; small suns still blinked where they had been struck open. Wukong stood on a floating slab of crust as if balancing on the rim of a bowl the cosmos had inverted. His fur had the dust of dead stars in it. His grin was a slash of sunlight.
γWukongγ
β¦ All right then. Let's make this last course memorable.β¦
γπππ ππππ πππ ππππ πππππ ππππ ππππππ πππππ πππππγ
He planted the staff. The world registered the gesture like an omen. Wukong's form shivered; light pooled around him and then snapped into sharper edges. Gold fur flared, spikes aligning along his back like polished thrones of sun. Muscles reknit with a metallic ping. The air itself seemed to reclassify laws to make room for him.
When he finished, he was larger, if only by the feeling that space had to bend an inch farther away from him. Super Sun 2 bloomedβsharper fur, a roar of light like hammered brass, a presence that rewrote the scale of the field.
γWukongγ
β¦ Took you long enough to notice.β¦
γπππ πππππ ππππππππ πππππ πππ πππππππγ
Doomsday faced him across the strewn crust, the pig-god's armor steaming with the after-effects of their previous clash. He flexed and changedβagainβand now his frame bristled with new plates that winked with volatile energy. A grin that could cleave continents spread across his face.
γDoomsdayγ
β¦ You're loud, monkey. I like loud. It makes the breaking easier.β¦
γπππ πππππππ πππππππ πππγ
Doomsday inhaled as if to call down a storm. Around his maw the air blackened into a viscous vaporβsmoke that smelled of iron and old wars. He expelled it in a breath that moved like a tide. The vapor coalesced into chains of living shadow and pain that lashed out with the hunger of a trap.
β¦Spell β Zojilla Fumeβ§
πππππππ ππππ β a bondage-smoke made of condensed cruelty, which formed links that sought not only to bind flesh but to wed time to suffering. The fumes slid like wet ink and wrapped around Wukong's limbs with predatory grace.
The chains found purchase. Golden fur met blackened vapor and the contact sang. Links tightened with thoughtless efficiency. Wukong's foot stumbled as though his weight had been doubled by the gravity of regret. Light dimmed where the chains bound him; the staff in his hand hummed impotently against the fetters.
γDoomsdayγ
β¦ It's over, kiddo.β¦
γπππ ππππ πππ π π πππ ππ πππππππππππγ
He stepped forward through the shattered lightβeach step rearranging debris like a child moving chess pieces for the pleasure of quiet dominance. Doomsday's approach was a statement: the chains were not merely to trap; they were to show the world a method. He closed the distance and raised his palm; the vapors hummed like chords in a dirge.
Wukong's grin thinned, not with fear but with that particular spicy flash that means a joke is transitioning to a dare. The chains pulled, but his eyes were bright.
γWukongγ
β¦ Not.β¦
γπππ πππππ ππ πππ ππππππ πππππ: ππππ, πππππ, πππ ππππγ
He did not wait for a rescue or a miracle. He tore at the chains like a demon at a collar. The Zojilla links resisted, burning with the sensation of a thousand small cuts. They were designed to hold gods, to be the cage for volcanoes, but Wukong had hands that thought like hammers and a will that turned pain into momentum. He concentratedβnot to brute his way out but to undo the spell's form.
He twisted the staff, angled it at the nearest link, and used the motion as a fulcrum. The link shuddered and thenβsplintered. The vapor stitched itself back and tightened, but each time Wukong found a new seam, a small pocket of contradiction in the spell's binding. He pulled and slit and burned with his own sun-breath until the chain was more rag than barrier.
The last link was stubborn. Zojilla Fume resisted with the patience of rot. It whispered promises of stasis. Wukong closed his eyes for a sliver. Somewhere inside him a golden note hummed. He harnessed that noteβnot a shout, not a flare, but a small, disciplined chorusβand sang against the fumes.
Light answered. The chains boiled and snapped like ice on hot metal. The vapor coughed and then collapsed in ribbons that drifted away, weak as moth-silk. Freed, Wukong tasted the afterburn of containment like someone sniffing smoke after a fire.
Doomsday's smile thinned, and in that thinning there was a shade of impatience. He lunged, massive and immediate, to reclaim advantage. Wukong didn't wait to be the hunted. He grabbed the nearest chunk of cosmosβa nascent, wobbling galaxy the size of a continent that drifted between two broken sunsβand with the blunt, theatrical force of someone hurling a boulder at a tyrant, he heaved it as if tossing a stone at a dog.
The galaxy arced through the void like a lit lantern. It struck Doomsday in the chest with a violence that sounded like collapsing architecture. The pig-god rocked; plates sheared; armor cracked. There was a bloom of radiation where the galaxy's outer spin contacted flesh and metal. For a staggered second it appeared as if the world itself had taken a step to admire the result.
Doomsday stumbled backward, smoke spilling from nostrils. Wukong pivoted, staff ready for whatever stubbornness remained. He was mid-smileβequal parts triumph and mischiefβwhen the sky answered back.
What came next was not a trickle of orbiting debris but an onslaught: ten thousand galaxies, a funeral flotilla, unspooling toward the battlefield like a swarm. They arrived in a formation that read less like celestial mechanics and more like an avalanche arranged by a meticulous god: compact, inexorable, and multiplied into the obscene.
For a heartbeat everyone thought it was Doomsday's doingβbecause the pig-god had been the one excusing himself with reckless aplombβbut those galaxies were not his alone to govern. They moved with intent. Their edges shimmered with a heat like the edge of a newly-cast blade, and together they made a dark tide.
Doomsday reacted like a creature with more mass than room for caution. He smashed several into particles with palm strikes and shoulder rolls, destroying suns and unmaking rings as if batting away flies. Each galaxy he obliterated ripped a hole of brilliance that hung for an instant and then become only dust. He moved with the raw, adaptive fury of an organism defending blood-family; his muscles braided with effort and his breath came in hard ropes.
But ten thousand do not bow easily. They came in packs, and his swings, mighty as they were, could only touch a fraction at a time. A cascade of minor galaxies grape-sorted past his reach. One massive wheelβheavy enough to qualify as a small legionβhit the line he had cleared and detonated at his flank. The force staggered him. Dust and newborn stars rain down like teeth.
He roaredβan animal alarmed. He drove his palms through two comets at once and split them with a sound like tectonics. Despite the destruction he created, they kept coming. The sky filled with glowing shells and star-halos that downshifted the scene into a new kind of chaos.
Doomsday managed to destroy many, but his movements had the sense of a man swatting at a flood. Each galaxy he destroyed increased the heat in his body; each attempt that failed raised the pressure in his chest. He could not dodge all of them. Some cut paths toward him with surgical inevitability.
A single galaxyβsmall compared to the tide but still the size of a fortressβbore down on him. He met it head-on and, with a roar of exertion, unmade it in a spray of radiation that punched a crater through the nearest field. For a breath he registered success.
But the thing he destroyed was not the real target. The struck galaxy disintegrated into a storm of fragmentsβand in that spray of shrapnel the outline of a figure shifted, folded and reformed. The pulverized globe's destruction was a cover. The figure that stood in the rain of particles was not Doomsday but a facsimile that had taken the galaxy's energy and the momentary vacuum to rebuild itself: Wukong.
γWukongγ
β¦ Pork chop, it's over for you!β¦
γπππ ππππ ππππ ππ ππππ ππππππ πππππππ πππππγ
He had shape-shifted with the cunning of someone who had made survival an art. He stressed the momentβcaught Doomsday looking at the wrong ruinβand then struck with a spell that tasted like finality.
β¦Spell β Ultimate Slashesβ§
ππππππππ πππππππ β a constellation of cuts folded into the air, a choreography of arc and burn designed to unmake a god in the language of geometry. Lines of light erupted from Wukong's staff, fanning outward with terrifying precision. Each slash carried the compactness of a blade honed by centuries and the reckless joy of a trickster who enjoys tidy endings.
They fell like the hands of a silent judge. The first cut sheared plates and tendon; the second unstitched joints; the third carved away momentum until Doomsday's knees buckled. The slashes were not wild; they knew exactly where to travel and what to end. They laced together and sliced like a net, leaving behind spaces that could not be mended by the pig-god's regenerative arrogance.
Doomsday reeled under the geometry of the strike. He tried to counter with mass and rage, but the Ultimate Slashes were a language he had not readβan arithmetic of incision that made his muscles betray him. Where his skin would once have knitted like oiled leather, the slashes left holes that hummed with light and refused to close.
The field filled with the sound of cut cosmos, of severed arcs folding into themselves. Wukong moved through it like a chef through a kitchen: rapid, controlled, uncaring and utterly competent. His eyes shone with a bright, terrible amusementβthis was not merely survival or sport; it was the satisfaction of a clean solution.
The chapter ends on that strikeβon the fan of Ultimate Slashes falling upon Doomsday, on the pig-god staggering in a rain of unrepairable geometry, and on Wukong standing amid the storm as a small sun with a grin that promised nothing soft.
No resolution beyond the strike is given. The scene closes with Doomsday under assault by the Ultimate Slashes and Wukong's declaration echoing in the spun light: "Pork chop, it's over for you!" The sky bore witness, and the cosmos held its breath.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK HOW MUCH STRONG WUKONG WOULD BE IF HE GO ALL OUT ?"